


If nothing matters, there's nothing to save

by sp1



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Child Abuse, Dissociation, Drugs, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Incest, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp1/pseuds/sp1
Summary: Charles wants to confide in Pierre about what has happened to him, but the road to recovery is a difficult one.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	If nothing matters, there's nothing to save

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about child abuse and trauma recovery. It will get graphic, so please do not read if that's something you can't handle. Take care.

Pierre drinks, Charles smokes. It’s as simple as that. Paradoxically, it’s the thick, herby air in Pierre’s hotel room that clears the fog in Charles’ head. He runs his hand across the carpet and makes sure to appreciate each individual thread. Strands of twisted fibre remind him he’s alive. 

“Should we open a window?” Charles lies down, grateful to feel shirt rub against his skin as he moves. He’s in the moment- fuck, he’s finally _here_. He takes another hit just to celebrate it.

Pierre ignores Charles’ question from where he’s sat on the couch, casually playing with the beer bottle he emptied a few moments ago. Charles watches, entranced, eternally grateful for his momentarily heightened senses. A provocative scene unfolds in front of him as Pierre wraps his fingers around the neck of the bottle. Mesmerised, Charles lolls his head to one side and pushes out his lips a little. He’s not that far gone yet, but he likes to give the impression that he is.

“I think I’m hallucinating,” he groans, only a little surprised when he feels the sound vibrate through his entire head. “Maybe I’ve had enough weed for now.”

Again, Pierre stays silent, but this time he makes up for it when he positions the beer in his lap starts pumping it. Just watching Pierre’s expert hands do what they’re best at is hypnotising enough, and Charles feels himself react to it as if Pierre is working Charles’ dick instead of the bottle.

“I can’t believe a fucking _beer bottle_ is getting more action than I am.”

“Let’s change that, then,” Pierre finally speaks. He sets the bottle aside and pushes himself up from the couch. Charles gets up as well, skin buzzing even before Pierre takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom. He closes his eyes and dwells on the sensation. God, it’s so good. 

He’s getting fucked by Pierre in the hotel bedroom when he notices his vision start to blur. Pierre’s face is only a few inches away, but Charles’ eyes narrowly avoid him before determinedly focussing on a point a few inches above Pierre’s head. Moans – Charles is not sure whose – vanish into thin air and touches melt together as hands caress him all over his body. They’re on his chest, on his waist, his arms, his neck- Everything in the room merges and dulls, just tangible enough for Charles to know it’s real, but too distant for him to return to. His head sinks down onto the pillow and the bed cradles his naked body, rocks him every so gently. It’s not in his power to fight it, so he allows his mind to wander. 

He’s around seven, playing school on an unbearably hot summer day. Even in Lorenzo’s bedroom, the heat lingers. Lorenzo nudges the pair of glasses he stole from _papa_ up a little higher on his nose. They’re the sign he’s the principal of the school today. Charles, Arthur, Tom and Jules are the students, each with their own notebook in their lap. Principal Lorenzo assigns them homework and every now and then he calls a student into his ‘office’. It’s his bedroom closet, where his neatly hung up clothes leave just enough room for two kids to stand upright. Every time a student enters and the closet door closes, Charles can hear Lorenzo scolding him. Jules gets told off for his grades, Arthur for his bad behaviour.

But when Charles joins Lorenzo in the closet, he doesn’t get yelled at. Instead, Lorenzo’s voice softens to a whisper. He leans closer, lips brushing against Charles’ right ear. 

“I love you,” he says, moving close enough for Charles to feel his body through his clothes. He lets his hands touch gently, slowly travelling the distance from Charles’ shoulders down to his butt. Shivers wreck Charles’ body in reaction to both the physical contact and the compassionate tone of Lorenzo’s voice. He senses the tension of the moment, but before Charles can let any of it sink in, Lorenzo is kissing him on the mouth, full tongue, cupping his hand around Charles’ crotch all at the same time. Every nerve in Charles’ body and brain is electrified as Lorenzo touches him through his jeans. Instinctively, he reacts with a moan.

Lorenzo presses his other hand flat against the lower half of Charles’ face, pushing him hard against the wall and effectively shutting him up. Charles concentrates on trying to breathe while Lorenzo keeps repeating how he loves him, unable to move while his older brother touches him all over. He’s still shaking by the time Lorenzo has left the closet. 

“Charles?” 

Pierre’s voice fades in and out of Charles’ mind, growing louder each time. Lorenzo’s bedroom closet melts in the wake of his consciousness and slowly gives way to the hotel bedroom. He lets Pierre support him as he tries to sit upright, mind racing to catch up with the feedback of all of his senses. 

“What happened?” Pierre asks, face set in a frown of concern.

“Must’ve been the weed,” Charles tries. He’s too exhausted to come up with a proper excuse. “You know, it can cause hallucinations and stuff.” 

That elicits a deep sigh from Pierre. “Charles, I smoke too. All of our friends smoke. It’s never happened to anyone before.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, so he curls up underneath the covers and turns away from Pierre. His thoughts drag in slow motion, but never die down enough to let him fall asleep. On the other side of the bed, Pierre moves to turn off the lights, only to stir restlessly afterwards until he speaks up again.

“If you want to talk about anything, I’m here.” 

Charles’ chest aches with detained confessions, but he can’t get himself to confide in Pierre. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, voice strained to a point where he doesn’t recognise it anymore. “Just go to sleep.”

Charles takes Pierre back to his family home in Monaco during the summer break. His mum and Arthur are visiting family friends and Lorenzo is on vacation with his friends. Charles had a hard time trying to conceal his relief when Arthur told him about that on the phone a few days ago. Admittedly, he’s a bit nervous about what they’re about to do, but he convinces himself he shouldn’t be. He hasn’t done any drugs, they won’t be in Lorenzo’s room, or – shivers run down his spine at the thought of it – his bedroom closet. He’ll be fine.

His bedroom walls are blue, but aside from that, everything is red. The prancing horse is visible on just about every surface. 

“Cosy,” Pierre comments. “I thought you’d have cut back on the decorations by now.”

Charles shrugs as he takes in the room once again. He’s happy to be home, but something feels… off. Ever since the incident at the hotel he hasn’t been the same. He finds it difficult to concentrate or participate in conversations. More than once, Mattia has had to scold him for not paying attention. The Ferrari sheets make Chares’ heart pound in his ears but he sits down on his bed anyway. He obediently lifts his arms to let Pierre remove his shirt, cold and hot flashes shooting across his skin. Pierre undresses in front of him, and despite the familiarity of it, Charles can’t shake the feeling that something is about to go incredibly wrong.

Charles’ chest heaves involuntarily as his thoughts accelerate to incomprehensible speeds inside his mind. He begs them to slow so he can breathe, but they don’t. One moment he’s alone, the next someone is touching him – Pierre? Lorenzo? He can’t tell. The room spins and he closes his eyes, begging the world to decelerate to something his brain and body can cope with. 

When he opens his eyes again, Lorenzo is on top of him. 

Charles freezes as wave after wave floods over his body, paralysing him. The rough hands on his chest hurt. His racing overall bunched up against his skin hurts. Everything hurts. He came home from a karting race not long ago only to be pulled into the bedroom by Lorenzo. He wants to celebrate the race results, he says. When Charles reminds him he finished ninth after spinning out of the lead on his own during the second to last lap, Lorenzo claims it doesn't matter.

He focusses on the Ferrari toy car on his bedroom floor, images to play with it while Lorenzo unzips his racing overall agonisingly slowly. Even though it’s a summer afternoon, tremors pass through his frame. Lorenzo adds to them by running his hands across Charles’ exposed torso before he strips down to just his underwear. His red boxers are a perfect match with the Ferrari covers on the bed. He takes Charles’ hand and guides it down there without too much of a struggle, face scrunched up as he throws his head back. Charles isn’t sure what it all means, but he follows Lorenzo’s instructions the best he can: “Rub faster, harder- fuck, yes Charlot. Good boy.” 

Later, Lorenzo palms him through his racing overall and kisses him as a reward. Charles can taste the strawberry sweets _maman_ gave them earlier that day as he licks into Lorenzo’s mouth. He gasps when Lorenzo sits straight up and retracts his hand, leaving Charles’ mouth and crotch burning with desire. 

“What’s wrong?” Charles asks.

Lorenzo takes a shuddering breath. His voice is uncharacteristically constrained and his hands tremble as he runs them through his hair. He doesn’t meet Charles’ eyes. “I’m just really scared.” 

It’s a disturbing shift in tone. Lorenzo moves so he’s on the empty side of the bed and buries his face in his hands. Charles’ heart rate quickens instinctively.

“Scared of what?”

“Nothing.”

Why does Lorenzo sound so tired all of a sudden when he was full of energy only a few minutes ago? Charles wants to lean closer to reassure him, but Lorenzo looks straight at him as soon as he tries. It’s a look that makes the world stop and takes Charles' breath away in the worst imaginable way possible. Time is frozen until Lorenzo closes his eyes and everything comes crashing down.

“Listen, I don’t want to play this stupid game anymore.” Lorenzo rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “Arthur is better at kissing than you are, anyway.”

Charles feels the muscles in his face start to tremble instantly after that remark. He’s at the mercy of his own body as it forces his breathing into an irregular pattern and makes his heart race. The implication of Lorenzo’s words starts to dawn on him; Lorenzo never wanted _him_, specifically. He isn’t special.

“This is the worst day ever,” Charles whimpers though hitching breaths.

Lorenzo pushes him back and walks away.


End file.
